


Five Nice Days (And One Accurate Confession)

by improfem



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (sort of), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Animal Traits, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Pining, Podfic Welcome, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Snake Crowley, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Transformative Works Welcome, Wing Grooming, nonsexual consent, pining aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 19:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/improfem/pseuds/improfem
Summary: For most of their millennia-old acquaintance, Aziraphale has been aware that he is utterly, deeply in love with Crowley. For the entirety of their acquaintance, he has also been aware that demons, do not, in fact, experience love. So when a sick Crowley is in need of help, he is prepared to put centuries of pining aside and, once again, avoid talking about his feelings at all costs. That is, until the alcohol intervenes.(Rated E only for the smut at the very end of Ch 5)





	1. Not yet Iran, 3587 B.C.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celtic7irish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celtic7irish/gifts).

> I tried to incorporate as many of your prompts/wishes as possible, and although I didn't manage to get them all, I hope the selection was worth it. :-)  
Based partially on[this tumblr post](https://improfem.tumblr.com/post/187143760949/fic-where-aziraphale-is-fully-aware-that-he-is): "fic where aziraphale is fully aware that he is deeply and irrevocably in love with crowley and not in the all-encompassing angel way, but since crowley is a demon, he’s clearly not capable of reciprocating. aziraphale resigns himself to being content with what he’s got despite not at all being in the business of denying himself what he wants.  
he accidentally confesses this to crowley while they’re both absolutely swozzled and crowley sobers up so fast it breaks the sound barrier, rounding on aziraphale like “are you fucking kidding me with this shit you can literally sense love you absolute moron I’m a goddamn imax technicolor surround sound of being in love with you”  
and aziraphale is just like “………but that’s just the background love static. earth has always felt this way around you.”  
“yeah,” says crowley, as if he is very patiently explaining that water is, in fact, wet. “yeah it has.”"
> 
> Special thanks to [KalessinAstarno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalessinAstarno/profile) for beta reading (and bullying me into properly capitalising my Angels) and to [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86) for prompting the first scene(s) and for contributing to the [playlist](https://improfem.tumblr.com/post/187519467559/five-nice-days-and-one-accurate-confession-a) which accompanies this fic.

_It was a nice day. All the days had been nice, as far as this current generation was concerned. There had been rather more than seven of them since the last time the angel had told himself so, and he had not yet found a reason to argue otherwise. Oh, how he sometimes wished he could argue otherwise. That is – the angel quickly reminded himself – of course he did not wish for the days to be less _nice_. _

_He simply – wondered. No, the angel reflected. He prayed. Of course, it would not do for an angel to wonder, that could only lead to questioning, and – well. There was simply no questioning the ineffable plan. Not for an angel, or more precisely, an angel who wished to hold on to this title. _

_So he prayed. He prayed for a purpose. For an assignment, even – the last one he’d been given proved rather pointless, in the end, once the walls had been dismantled. There was no use, after all, in guarding a gate anyone could just walk around. Perhaps he even prayed for some simple distraction and variety. _

_It had all been rather novel, in the beginning, the angel reflected – inhabiting a human body. Not entirely human, of course, but human enough. Very distracting, all those new sensations of light and sound and temperature and taste and scent… Exceedingly interesting, too, to communicate. There had been no such thing as a conversation, in the times before – they had been simply one mind. Except, of course, for those who weren’t. And there was no communication with them, either – for different reasons. _

_Lately, however, the novelty had begun to wear off. The angel had taken to travelling this new and relatively empty world more or less aimlessly, discovering its hidden beauties, the dangers it held for humans who were still, blissfully, unaware of them. He had not had a conversation in some decades now – not since the last time upstairs had sent him to deliver a message to some lucky human. _

_It was rather difficult, these days, to simply interact with the humans because one wanted to. They had, of course, not entirely forgotten the existence of supernatural beings – but it had been long enough now, for the knowledge to wash away into belief. Superstition, even. And there simply weren’t enough of them, usually, to avoid questions – or, if you weren’t careful, suspicion. _So, who was it again that you were related to?_ It would be different, one day, or so the angel had been told – but for now, he mostly kept his distance, and observed from afar. If he chose to observe at all, that was, and not to simply explore. _

~~

Aziraphale had been lying in the grass, observing the stars, when he’d heard the footsteps approach.

“I knew I smelled some divine interference around here. What’re you doing all the way out here, angel?”

The demon crouched down and eyed him with interest. They did not seem disturbed in the slightest, nor particularly hostile. Nothing at all like what one would expect of an infernal agent upon encountering an angel of the Lord’s army. Rather curious, actually.

Well, perhaps it did not help that he had kicked off his sandals and had his arms crossed behind his head. Aziraphale scrambled upright and eyed the demon with interest.

“I know you, don’t I? From the garden.”

The redhead nodded. “Crawley. And you’re… Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Incompetent guardian of the Almighty’s flaming sword.”

Offended, Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height, and huffed: “I am not _incompetent_. I gave that sword away _by choice_, thank you very much. And clearly, it worked. Who knows how long they would have made it without any weapon to protect themselves with, after the trouble you got them into.” 

Crawley jumped to their feet, and held out their hand, grinning. “Whatever. Listen, angel, far be it from me to stop you from admiring some of my best work,” his eyes fluttered briefly skyward, “but the humans have come up with some better entertainment. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Aziraphale hesitated, briefly. He probably shouldn’t. Accepting a demon’s invitation could only mean trouble. But then, he really had been craving some sentient company lately. And this way, he might even be able to intercept any wily plans Crawley might be up to at this moment.

The _entertainment_ turned out to be storytelling by firelight, accompanied by a few cups of a lovely, fermented fruit juice drink the humans had evidently invented since the last time Aziraphale had accepted their hospitality. Aziraphale had pointedly avoided to ask how his companion had come to be in the possession of the beverage, but Crawley had read the disapproval on his face. “Oh, relax. Yes, I stole it, but I left them a beehive for it. They’ll get stung, of course, but if they’re smart, they can domesticate them. Useful little buggers.” From his tone, it was quite unclear whether that last assessment had been meant for the insects or the humans.

They’d kept their distance from the settlement, of course, but found a spot close enough that they could follow the story that was being recited. The tragic, and periodically funny, tale of a smith who had made a deal with the devil and turned out to be triumphant by respecting the evil as his equal. Which seemed to amuse Crawley to no end.

“Good on them for enjoying that as long as it lasts, at least. Won’t enjoy what comes after, anyway.”

Aziraphale turned away from the scene at the fireside and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dark again.

“You seem awfully cavalier about leading humans to eternal damnation. I shouldn’t be surprised, of course. Demon.”

Crawley drained their cup and leaned back on their elbows. They cast around a suspicious look, as though somebody might be lurking in the shadows, but seemed to decide they were alone.

“For the record,” they drawled, “I don’t _enjoy_ knowing that my lot are coming up with new torture methods every day. It’s one thing driving them crazy as long as they are here on earth, and have some control over their actions, but… not like you or I are going to change that whole afterlife business, is it? And anyway. If you cared so much for their immortal souls, shouldn’t you be around them more? Trying to influence them to be obedient little servants of the Lord, instead of off… hiking, or whatever it is you do?”

Aziraphale paused, surprised, more than anything, at learning that Crawley had obviously been observing him for longer than he’d been aware.

“Well. I suppose sometimes it does… seem rather futile. Very headstrong creatures, after all, those humans. But still, there’s no reason to make light…”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Come on, angel, lets see if we can find any other delicacies those _headstrong creatures_ haven’t properly locked up. Shall we?”


	2. Mesopotamia, 3003 B.C.

_It was a nice day. None of the days had been nice – not for a long time, now. There had been rather more than seven of them since the water receded, and the world was covered in sludge and decay. Standing on a shore that had not existed a year ago, the angel turned his face to the breeze, grateful for any reprieve from the damp, putrid heat. _

_The world seemed crisper on the edge of the water, fresh and almost alive, and the irony of this was not lost on him. The ocean that had, for all intents and purposes, wiped out humanity, now seemed the most alive thing on the planet. Almost lively enough to believe in a new beginning. _

_There were no carcasses on the sand, neither animal or human, only some large skeletons, probably picked clean by sea creatures and too heavy to be carried away by a sea slowly remembering its natural tides. _

_The angel closed his eyes and took his first breath in the new and empty world. _

I know not to question your decisions, Lord, but am I allowed to wonder?

_The voice did not answer, had not done so in quite some time. The angel hadn’t expected it to, and yet…_

_The voice did not answer. It rang out over the murmur of the waves, light and bubbling in the way only a child’s laughter can. _

_The angel flinched. His heart squeezed at the echo of happy, lively human sounds – and then began to beat faster as the laugh returned, joined now by more giggling and shouting, a choir of voices too beautifully dissonant to be rooted only in his imagination. Had he misjudged his distance from the ark? No, Ararat was far more than a few days’ travel away. For humans and their means of transportation, at any rate. There was no way any of Noah’s offspring had made it here, yet. _

_There was more than the sound, too, a glow, returning to the world, a burst of love washing over him, the true mark of a human presence. Far more reassuring than the brilliant, cold glory of the rainbow that had not left the sky after the deathly storm. _

_He steadied himself, getting ready to turn around and meet these miraculous inhabitants of the new earth, but found his resolve cut short by the addition of another, distinctly familiar voice. _

_“Fancy meeting you here, Angel. Help me keep an eye on this lot, will you? Can’t have any more of them drowning, now.” _

~~

_Oh. So this is what it’s like. _

Aziraphale’s first realisation felt underwhelming, almost mundane. He’d spent the evening huddled by the fire, curiously eyed by the gaggle of children and teenagers who clearly wondered how, in the name of everything, it was possible for another person to have survived this flood. Hadn’t their own rescue been miraculous enough? And they had been right, of course, more so than they could have realised. Miraculous, and quite certainly a little cursed.

There were so many forms of love shimmering in the air, so much incredulous _I can’t believe this is real_, that it had taken him a while to notice something was… different. And then the demon had looked up, head still slightly bent over the toddler in his lap, had caught Aziraphale’s eye and – _good Lord_ – had _winked_ at him, and the angel had felt his stomach drop.

So. That was what it was like, then. What a peculiar way to find out that human emotions weren’t, after all, exclusively human. Could he be the subject of a demonic temptation? But surely, something as inconsequential as that was the last thing on the demon’s mind. And besides. Surely, there had to be something more sinister, more occult, to temptation. Aziraphale was a Guardian, after all, trained to detect and thwart evil wiles. Surely, he would have felt it, if there was something ominous about this.

All he could feel, though, was a pleasant warmth that had taken up residence in his chest, and the overwhelming urge to smile.

Much later, after the humans had fallen asleep, and he’d watched Crawley slowly drift off to sleep as well, Aziraphale stole away to once more look out on the sea and process this new emotion. The cold breeze felt sobering. After a tentative look over his shoulder – yes, all humans still sound asleep – he allowed his wings to manifest and fold around himself. Knees drawn tight against his ribcage, he placed his chin on a folded pair of arms.

An angel in love. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? Certainly, none of this had been part of his training. Still, it had happened, so it must be part of the great plan, somehow.

_Good job there, letting yourself get… infatuated with a demon, of all things. _

He cracked a bitter smile at the thought. Open a door, and immediately make sure that anything on the other side is most definitely locked up tight. Perhaps it made sense, given the increasingly convoluted policies both Above and Below seemed to be developing around intimate relationships. Love was to be celebrated, certainly, but who could keep track of how one was supposed to express it? Only sensible, then, if the Almighty wanted him to share in the experience without tarnishing his virtue, to make sure the object of his affection was… well. Guaranteed to feel no such thing in return.

Oh, well. These things passed, didn’t they? Certainly, humans talked about loving each other for all their lives, but how often did that actually happen? And, even if a human life span turned out to be a realistic life expectancy for such infatuation. It was hardly like that mattered, in the scope of an angelic life.

_Right, then. _

Time, perhaps, to simply enjoy. Aziraphale looked over his shoulder again and let his gaze wander over the tangle of sleeping bodies, until it caught on a mass of flaming red curls.

Ineffable, indeed.


	3. Alexandria, 48 B.C.

_It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them since the flames had been extinguished, and the weather continued to be mild. So mild, in fact, that it was almost too easy to forget the lingering scent of ashes in the air. _

_Once again, the angel found himself at the edge of the water, craving the purifying effect of salt and ocean air. _

_He forced himself to keep his back turned to the city, to ignore the smouldering ruins and the memory of agonised cries, ripped from the throats of humans dragged from the flames, just barely in time to keep them from suffocating. _

_There had been chatter in the streets, about how miraculous it was that nobody had perished in the fire. The world’s largest repositorium of knowledge, all burned to the ground, and not one human life lost. They were right, of course – quite miraculous. _

_The angel waded deeper into the waves and bent forward to dip his hands in the water, rinse off the soot still clinging between the fine hair on his lower arms. He should be returning to his lodgings, of course, or at the very least find a public bath to get himself cleaned up, but for now, he took comfort in not facing the humans. In not facing, even in his own mind, how frighteningly close he had come to disobeying orders. _

Do not interfere. Let the books burn. All part of the ineffable plan._ Of course, no one had ever mentioned the humans. It was chilling, sometimes, how little heaven seemed to think about the humans. _

_The angel could hear water splashing behind him, and a familiar, black-clad figure appeared beside him._

_“They’ll rebuild it, you know.” _

_The words sounded casual, but the angel could feel himself being watched from underneath slightly lowered demonic lids. Could sense an almost apologetic anticipation, a need for… forgiveness? Surely not. Still, he knew too much about the dangers of a lie to pretend, even to himself, that the hope he felt at the promise was entirely grounded in an appreciation of knowledge._

_“How would you know? I’m sure you can’t see the future, any more than I can.”_

_Could she? The angel had heard rumours, of course, but had always assumed them to be exaggeration. The demon that could control time. Surely, it was impossible, surely, no agent of hell could be that powerful. _

_“You sure about that, Angel?” _

_His unlikely companion smirked, and pulled on the scarf covering her head, a gesture which should have read as covering herself up, but felt… revealing, instead, only highlighting the curves of the body underneath that dark, rough fabric. _

_The angel averted his gaze and said nothing, studiously avoiding to swallow, as if even that simple reflex might have given away his impure thoughts. Perhaps something had given them away, anyway, because the demon only slid closer to him. _

_To an observer, they would have appeared to be standing side by side, scandalously close, perhaps, but still enough distance between them to preserve a shred of honour in his companion, should she be the kind of woman who cared about such things. Under the surface of the water, however, the angel could feel a foot brushing his. A shiver ran through his body, much, much colder than warranted even by the chilly temperature of the ocean. _

_ “Anyway, I don’t need to see the future. Just need to know a thing or two about humans, and I do. _You_ do. And you know I’m right. There’s a few things they’ll never be able to stay away from. I should know. I’m the one who got them into this mess.” _

_Her voice sounded low, conspiratorial, but it also carried an edge of… regret? Surprised, the angel lifted his head. His gaze was met by a knowing smirk, far, far too attractive for the amount of teeth it displayed. _

_“Come on, Angel, you’re turning blue. And not just where you’re supposed to be. Let’s get you out of this water and find you some wine.” _

~~

Dizzy with drink, with sleeplessness, and perhaps, still, with smoke, Aziraphale sank down on his bed. He didn’t sleep, but on nights like this, he really appreciated the comfort of a soft, horizontal surface. There’s only so much tilting and spinning a human-shaped body could take before giving itself over to nausea. He could sober himself up, of course, but that particular mistake was one he had made before.

A sober brain and the aftertaste of too much wine did not pair well with the lingering effects of a full day’s worth of desire and self-loathing. Better to stay drunk little while longer, ride this out the human way.

He groaned and tugged at the fabric of his tunic, already heavy with sweat and salty sea air, as though he hadn’t just changed it before leaving the bath.

Fitting, really, this climate. To the state of his thoughts and the state of his… everything. Always so heady, so sticky, so… visceral. In his right mind, Aziraphale would have acknowledged that the sea breeze might as well be described as the perfect antidote to the general heat of Egyptian summer, but just now, he was feeling bitter, and resentful, and a little self-indulgent.

Why make everything so complicated? Why bring in the heat, and the humidity, and the heartbeat crashing in his ears like waves, and the fever twitch of needing to reach out of his own body and fall into someone else’s?

Why, for that matter, make her appear as a woman, this time around? Like it wasn’t terribly cliché to read temptation into the curve of a woman’s lips, when she, quite literally, had just been minding her own business? Not her fault, if somebody should look at her and see the apple, instead of the serpent.

_Point taken_, Aziraphale wanted to scream. _Yes, well done, I see now how hard it can be for them. But haven’t I proven myself trustworthy by now? Haven’t I controlled myself for the past almost three millennia?_ Surely, that must count for something.

Enough for what, exactly – he wasn’t sure. Make sure he understood? Aziraphale liked to think that showing empathy for the humans had never been a problem of his. As a punishment, then, for going a bit overboard with that, right from the start? Give him a taste of the suffering he had never felt in his power to ignore? Or as a test to his self-control, to ensure that, if called upon, he could still return to being a steadfast, unwavering soldier in the Lord’s army?

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Maybe sleep wasn’t such a bad idea. Twisting around on the overheated, uncomfortable sheets, his hand brushed against something hard, and relatively cool to the touch. Something very much not left here by him, before he’d left this room in the morning.

His fingers closed around the wooden hilt of a papyrus, and he scrambled upright, eyeing the scroll in the stark, silver moonlight. He ran his fingers over the length of it: there was a hint of smoke, and Aziraphale briefly wondered if the papyrus might have been damaged in the fire. Perhaps best not to open it? It looked and felt relatively undamaged, though, so he carefully unfurled the end, relieved that the material did not crumble under his hands.

His breath hitched, as one of the poems jumped out to him, and Aziraphale smiled.

_Like a sweet-apple_

_turning red_

_high_

_on the tip_

_of the topmost branch._

_Forgotten by pickers._

_Not forgotten—_

_they couldn’t reach it._

Maybe the prospect of being sober again in the morning wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, there are several theories on how and when the library of Alexandria was burned, and I just went with the one that suited me best: https://www.britannica.com/topic/Library-of-Alexandria/The-fate-of-the-Library-of-Alexandria
> 
> This has nothing to do with anything, but the library of Alexandria was, of course, rebuilt, and I’m a fan: https://www.bibalex.org//Attachments/Gallery/Large/201002111417273608_Rainbow.jpg 
> 
> Sappho translation from here: https://www.uh.edu/~cldue/texts/sappho.html


	4. Weimar, 1826

_It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them since the brilliant autumn day on which a human skull had been delivered to the garden residence of one of Weimar’s most prominent inhabitants. The recipient of the strange and morbid delivery, however, did not seem aware of the quality of the days, or indeed their passing. _

_The angel shifted slightly in his seat between the rose bushes and went back to observing the poet. Energetic and imposing for a man of over 70, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe had spent the past few days alternately pacing his office, using all manner of scientific instruments in order to examine the human remains before him, and muttering to himself while vigorously scribbling notes on a desk increasingly littered with paper. _

_The angel, in contrast, had spent the days in almost perfect stillness, never moving from his seat in the garden, and barely moving at all except to occasionally eat and drink. While not technically invisible, he was very skilled at avoiding human attention when he put his mind to it. None of the passers-by had noticed him. And he intended to keep it this way. _

_Technically speaking, the angel was not supposed to be here at all, his assignments quite definitely not tied to a famous German writer/scientist-turned-civil-servant. But heaven would never notice. The angel, however, felt it his duty to keep an eye on the man, especially now. What a shame it would be, if such a brilliant life were to be cut short by the all-too human despair over holding a lifeless remainder of his once-best friend. _

_A human observer might have given up the vigil by now, satisfied that one of the great poetic minds of his day would not allow himself to succumb to something as mundane as grief. They might have reasoned, not entirely without foundation, that more than twenty years had passed since the untimely death of Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller, and surely, even the deepest friendship must have faded by now. They might have left, simply, out of boredom. _

_The angel, however, could not find himself convinced by any of these concerns. He had been created to watch and to guard and would be able to keep this post for years – for decades, if needed. He had observed humanity for millennia, and learned that it contained multitudes, often within the same person. That a great mind and worldly success would not prevent a man from buckling under the weight of his emotions. In fact, the angel had, on occasion, felt himself frighteningly close to the possibility. _

_~~_

Aziraphale knew, of course, that he was projecting. There was no reason, really, to think that the man he was keeping watch over would recognise even a fraction of his feelings, but it was comforting to think there might be at least one other person who understood. Understood, at the very least, the feeling of knowing one soul, one brilliant mind which resonated with your own, to the complete and utter exclusion of everyone else. The joy of spending time in the presence of that mind, and what it was like to have a sparring partner who truly was your equal. The pain of knowing that this would never happen again, because that one soul in the entire universe would never cross your path again.

Granted, what he would not, could not understand, was what it was like to know the situation was your own fault. However tragic the death of Friedrich Schiller, it had been the result of a natural illness. None of his loved ones had been left to torture themselves with the question whether they could have averted it, had they just… yes. Just what? What could he have done, Aziraphale wondered?

Should he have given in to Crowley’s request? Supplied him with holy water that, at any moment, could be used to extinguish his essence? The effect on Aziraphale might have been the same, it did not seem like he would ever lay eyes on the demon again. But at the very least, he could hope that by making this choice, Crowley would continue to exist. Would find some way, somehow, to let go of this self-destructive notion of his.

So, what did it matter that Aziraphale felt like there had been a hole cut in the fabric of his being? Like he was slowly unravelling from the inside out, for the past two decades now, and without the promise of running out of thread any time soon?

A small price to pay, really, for the knowledge that he would not be responsible, however indirectly, for the death of his love. Small price, indeed, to pay for the knowledge that somewhere out there, this extraordinary, paradoxical soul would continue to exist.

And this pain that he felt, at the knowledge that he might never see Crowley again, or speak to him? Well. By now, Aziraphale had become quite practiced in pushing his feelings far, far into some private corner of his mind and never addressing them. He’d find a way to deal with this, too.

A better way, hopefully, than accidentally letting his emotions spill over, however briefly.

_“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill.”_ Unspoken, but tangible: _I can’t believe you would ask me to live in a world in which you don’t exist. I can’t believe you would consider _leaving_ like that. _

The shock, and the anger, on Crowley’s face had been sobering. Of course. _Of course_ he wouldn’t understand why this was unthinkable to Aziraphale. He might be the most extraordinary demon in existence, might feel compassion and on occasion even… affection, for God’s creatures (though he would never admit it), but this. Of course he could not know what it did to Aziraphale’s heart to even consider the possibility.

It was getting dark. Inside, the object of his observation had been lighting candles and was now contemplating the bust residing over his desk, muttering to himself. The light of the nearest flame reflected on the wine glass in the poet’s hand and tinted the marble hair and face a deep red. Someone really ought to enlighten this society on just how wrong they had gotten the idea of classical Greek and Roman art, Aziraphale thought as he felt something catch in this throat. But then, maybe it was for the best. He certainly felt no need to enhance the uncomfortable resemblance of this particular piece, as would undoubtedly happen if the tastes of the day turned towards painting marble once again.

No need at all, his mind did enough of that, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did take a little (factually no doubt extremely questionable) detour into German literary history there. Ooops. The facts are these: Goethe and Schiller were extremely close friends for a while, close enough that I have indeed seen people ship them enthusiastically (my tumblr experience ca. 2014 was a weird one). More to the point, Goethe did indeed have his friends’s skull in his possession for a while, and wrote a poem about it (Bei Betrachtung von Schiller’s Schädel). I’m unclear on all the details, but it does seem to involve a burial with several other poor people, a belated exhumation and some smartypants party deciding ‘biggest skull has to belong to the biggest genius in the place’ (men.) Perhaps unsurprisingly, the skull believed to be Schiller’s (as well as another possible contender) were later proven to not belong to him by a DNA analysis. The bust I am referencing is this one: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Heinrich_Dannecker#/media/Datei:Dannecker’s_Schiller_bust_(original,_straight_look).jpg and if you can’t see why that carries Crowley energy, please also know that the dude allegedly sniffed decaying apples for inspiration (probably a myth) and has a rosé wine named after him (definitely not a myth).   
Also, in case you don’t know it, consider this statue of two hereditary enemies partners in crime: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Goethe-Schiller-Denkmal_vor_dem_Deutschen_Nationaltheater_in_Weimar_-_panoramio.jpg


	5. London, 2019

_It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them since the world had failed to end, and the peaceful glow of a former antichrist’s happy childhood imagination still lingered over the earth. _

_The angel put down his book and surveyed his surroundings with a contented sigh. In the stark rays of an early September afternoon sun, pedestrians were streaming by. He could feel excitement radiating from them, satisfaction, tranquillity, a healthy, human dose of mischief. Eventually, the soothing, smoothing after-effects of reality reconfiguration would dissipate, and they would return to their ordinary, messy pains and pleasures. For now, however, the former were on hold, and humanity was basking in the glow of the latter, in perfect moderation. _

_The angel’s jacket had been discarded some time ago, and his shirt sleeves pushed up to soak up the warmth of the softly passing summer. He fished a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and frowned. It was, in fact, much later than he had estimated. Which meant not only was the dissatisfied grumble of his stomach much more justified than he had thought, but that the demon Crowley, perhaps for the first time in their acquaintance, was late to meet him. _

_Regretfully turning his back on the afternoon sun, the angel returned to the dim, temperate quiet of his bookshop, and made his way to the telephone. _

“This is Anthony J. Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.”

_“Crowley, hello, it’s me,” he announced, trying and failing to keep reproach from seeping into his voice. “You really should consider changing your answering message, it is quite rude. In any case, I am calling to ask if your plans have changed. Are we still going for tea? I shall try to reach you on your cell phone, as well. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.” _

~~

“Crowley? Are you home?”

It was hard to tell, considering the general gloominess of the flat, whether it was occupied at any given moment. At least Aziraphale had always thought so, on the rare occasions that he had seen the place.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, however, he could see just a fraction more brightness trickle into the hallway from the left. The room where Crowley kept his plants, if memory served.

Aziraphale bent to unlace his shoes, then placed them carefully next to the entrance door, before venturing in the direction of the slightly ajar door. A frantic rustling sound came from within, along with what sounded like curses in languages which had not been spoken on earth in millennia.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called again. Still no answer.

Perhaps he should turn around and leave. Yes, Crowley cancelling their plans unspoken like this, and not answering any of his phones was odd, but. There were no signs of forced entry, or anything else to suggest that, for instance, Crowley’s former colleagues had returned to cause more problems. Clearly, he was home, and just as clearly, he was not going to react to Aziraphale’s calls. Whatever the reason for that, he should not intrude.

He was just about to tiptoe his way back to the door, when the sounds inside were punctuated by a strangled cry. Followed by… sobbing? Sniffling? Alright, maybe it was not the best idea to just leave Crowley to his own devices. He might be in need of help, by the sound of it.

This time, Aziraphale made sure to punctuate his call with a decisive knock.

“Crowley, dear, are you in there? Please say something, or I am coming in to check on you.”

The answer came slowly, muffled, and slightly slurred.

“… ‘ziraphale?” A thud, as though some soft, but heavy object had tipped over. What was he doing in there? “’m here…”

No “Come in.” No “Go away.”

Aziraphale waited another beat, but when Crowley remained silent, and the rustling noise returned, he reached out for the door and pushed it open.

The scene before him was… baffling, to say the least. An assortment of bowls and buckets littered the floor, filled with liquids of various colours, and – judging by the steam emerging from them – temperatures. Cleaning products and rags and a few bandages were strewn between them, and at the centre of it all sat Crowley, looking feverish and decidedly disturbed. His wings extended to either side of him, though if they hadn’t obviously been his by virtue of being attached to his body, Aziraphale would never have recognised them as Crowley’s. Usually an immaculate, glossy black, the feathers now looked charred, matte, and covered in grime. They were sticking out at unnatural angles, and on the right wing, Aziraphale could have sworn he saw something glistening, dark red and sickening greyish yellow.

Before he had time to inspect it further, however, the wings flickered and faded out of the visible plane.

“Oh. Oh dear. Oh, Crowley, what happened?”

The demon looked up at him for a moment, the slight twitch of his shoulders just barely communicating a shrug. Then, as though the simple movement had already taken too much energy, he slumped over once again, his whole body shuddering as the wings reappeared. Apparently, keeping them hidden took more energy than Crowley currently possessed.

Instinctively, Aziraphale averted his eyes. Clearly, showing himself in this state was not a choice Crowley had made willingly.

“Would you like me to turn away?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley, weakly shaking his head. “Nnnnn…”

Taking this as permission to take a closer look at the damage, Aziraphale pushed aside a large, bright green bucket and crouched down to examine the still-shivering demon. From this vantage point, the wings looked even less encouraging – Aziraphale had been right, there was a palm-sized wound on the right one, and several bones looked broken, or at the very least, badly dislocated.

“Did someone attack you?”

That barely perceptible jerk of the head again, and Crowley’s fingertips turned white, digging into his own knees for balance. Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley’s chin in his hand and raise up his face to get a better look at it. Sweat had plastered the once carefully groomed hair across the demon’s forehead, and his eyes looked glassy. They had returned to their full serpent state and were tinged with red from the edges.

“So then… what?”

“Fire…” Crowley mumbled. “Must’ve… ngh. Can’t get it out.”

Ah. Yes. Fire. There certainly had been enough of that over the past few days. Judging by the oily residue on Crowley’s plumage, driving a burning car particularly came to mind. And perhaps… no. Hellfire should not have impacted a demon. Could it? It might explain why the problem had only now manifested itself.

In any case, it did not seem like any of the cleaning solutions Crowley had come up with had made much of a difference. Aside, that was, from helping him spread the mess all around the room.

Aziraphale hesitated. It seemed obvious what his next words should be, and yet. Making the offer seemed almost obscenely personal. After all, grooming one’s wings was usually not something one would even do in company, let alone with the help of somebody else. But then, leaving Crowley to deal with this on his own seemed out of the question.

“Would you let me help you?”, he finally managed.

Judging by the incredulous look in his eyes, Crowley didn’t find the suggestion any more appropriate than Aziraphale. Then again, he, too, had to have realised that he was running out of options.

“Fine.”

It sounded like a defeated hiss, flaring his nostrils more than it seemed to pass his lips. Aziraphale tried to ignore the uncomfortable twist in his stomach and concentrate on the matter at hand.

“Right then. Let’s get you somewhere where we can get you cleaned up with something less… chemical.” How on earth had Crowley decided that industrial-strength cleaning products were the way to go, anyway? “Do you think you can make it to the shower?”

Crowley tilted his head back as if to say _Are you kidding me?_ Right. Silly question.

“Tried that… already.” Yellow eyes flitted over Aziraphale’s face and then away again, to stare somewhere into the empty middle distance. “Jussssst. Slides off.” Crowley paused at his own words and his face twisted into a grimacing smile. “Likea duck.”

Right. Aziraphale made a mental note to look up illnesses and infections as they related to demons, as soon as he got a chance to. Whatever these injuries were doing to Crowley’s body, they also seemed to be affecting his mind, if he honestly found this funny. But. First things first.

“A bathtub, then.” He considered miracleing one into the bathroom, which had decidedly not been built for such old-fashioned comforts, but thought better of it. No matter how necessary his assistance, he could not imagine Crowley, once recovered, would take kindly to Aziraphale messing with his interior design. Besides, if he was going to need to consult his books anyway…

“Come on. I can get you cleaned up in my flat, and I’ll need to keep an eye on you while you recover.” Crowley did not respond, not to agree, nor did he protest when Aziraphale lifted one of his arms over his shoulder and pulled them both up into a standing position.

Thank the Lord he did not actually have to get him down the stairs, or even into the elevator, because Crowley offered up absolutely no assistance. As it was, it only took a snap of his fingers for both of them to be standing in his bathroom, and another for Aziraphale’s favourite armchair to materialise beside them.

“There you go. Careful, dear.” It took some careful manoeuvring, primarily on Aziraphale’s part, but eventually, Crowley slumped down into the comfortably worn cushions. His eyes had drifted closed, and he barely gave any indication of being aware of what was going on while Aziraphale rummaged around the cupboard, pulling out washcloths, a stack of fluffy towels and several bubble bath solutions.

It was only when the room had begun to fill with a gentle steam, and the scent of the bubbles wafted around them, that the demon began to stir again. There was a brief flick of distinctly non-human, forked tongue.

“Sssinnamon, Angel? Really?” Aziraphale paused self-consciously. It didn’t help that he had been in the process of removing his waistcoat. It was getting far too warm for his usual layers.

“Would you prefer something else?”

His own selection tended to be on the food-scented side of things, but, after all, he could always miracle up something different. The choice had seemed appropriate, though, warming and – at least in theory – slightly anti-inflammatory.

“Nh. S’ nice.”

Shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley again. Now, for the complicated part.

“Do you think you can manage to change, dear?”

He’d been carefully composing the question in his head ever since suggesting the bath. After all, the traditional way would have been for Crowley to be completely naked, but that seemed. Well. Hardly appropriate.

A sliver of yellow appeared between barely-opened lids, and Crowley’s face scrunched with concentration, but his clothes only flickered for a second, before reappearing exactly as they had been. He shook his head.

“You do it.”

Aziraphale sighed and gave another small prayer of thanks that this was one decision he’d already been prepared for. _Definitely_ not the moment to get hung up on a consideration of different kinds of bathing attire. What an unpleasant dilemma that had been the last time.

He closed his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, Crowley was wearing a short-sleeved one-piece Aziraphale had last seen on his own body, or – well. At least from a different vantage point. The demon briefly looked down on himself, surprise evident on his otherwise still exhausted expression. Then he looked back at the angel, one eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale blushed. _Tell me this isn’t how you paraded my body around hell_, he could almost hear, but apparently Crowley decided to save his energy.

With a great deal more manoeuvring and some very painful huffing on Crowley’s part, Aziraphale managed to heave the demon out of his chair and onto he edge of the bathtub. However.

“I think I’m going to have to pick you up, to actually get you into the water. Are you alright with that?”

“Hrmff.”

He decided to take the weak flick of Crowley’s wrist as a yes, and, one hand around his shoulders, the other looped underneath his knees, lifted the demon up into his arms.

_Oh, goodness. _

Best not to dwell on the picture they must make right now. Best not to dwell on any of this, really. That was for another night and much more alcohol. Instead, he put all his concentration into slowly and carefully lowering Crowley into the water, and definitely not noticing the pleasant shiver that ran through his body when sinking into the fragrant warmth. Or the sound that escaped Crowley’s lips, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

Almost immediately, dark tendrils of ash and soot began seeping into the water, surrounding the few feathers that had been submerged in the process of Crowley trying to find a comfortable seating position.

“There.” Aziraphale straightened. “Is this alright? Tell me if the temperature needs adjusting.”

In place of an answer, Crowley simply sighed again and curled up into a ball, face buried between his bent knees.

Taking this as permission to continue, Aziraphale reached for one of the washcloths and dipped it into the soapy water.

“I’m going to touch your wings now. If you need me to stop or… anything, just say the word. Or. Lift your hand, if you can’t.”

No response.

“Did you hear me, dear?”

The bathing costume was tight enough not to hide the annoyed tightening of Crowley’s shoulders.

“Yesssssss. Jussst. Getonwithit.”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath, thankful for the fact that Crowley’s still-shivering wings covered the sound of it. No need to make this even more awkward by giving away just how fast his heart was beating. Or how he had to be very firm, indeed, with is own inner monologue, not to tell himself _What a pervert you are. If he knew how long you’ve been longing to touch him, even a simple touch like this. He’d be disgusted. _

His arm felt stiff as he began running the wet cloth over the small feathers starting on Crowley’s shoulder blades. The contented sigh from the demon, however, combined with the dirt coming loose from that poor, abused plumage, helped him relax. Slowly, Aziraphale’s motions became more confident, and by the time he’d made it to the first joint, he even allowed his fingers to burrow between the feathers and loosen up some of the accumulated dirt.

He worked in silence, only occasionally punctuated by a shiver or a painful groan. After a few minutes, the bubbles had entirely dissolved, and the water had turned a dark, sickening grey. The contents of the bathtub had to be refilled several times, but eventually, Crowley’s wings began to resemble something like their usual, clean self again. Or they would have, had it not been for the injuries.

Eventually, when he was convinced nothing more could be gained from a fresh batch of water, Aziraphale let the tub drain one last time, and carefully rinsed off the remaining suds with warm water from the showerhead. He’d already bent to retrieve a towel, when another thought crossed his mind.

“Would you like me to wash your hair as well?”

Crowley seemed taken aback by the question, but, after a moment’s consideration, tilted his head back and closed his eyes again.

“Mhm.”

The feeling of carefully running warm water across Crowley’s forehead, of massaging shampoo into his scalp and feeling slick, silky hair slip through his fingers, made something clench in Aziraphale’s stomach. He couldn’t allow himself to think. So instead, he just focussed on the sensation, and on the effort of keeping soap from getting into the demon’s eyes. They looked swollen and irritated enough as it was.

It was only once Crowley had been dried off, miracled into his pyjamas, and placed, face down, in a nest of pillows on Aziraphale’s mostly-unused bed, that he forced himself to switch his conscious thoughts back on.

“I think it would be best if you slept for a while, before we try to get to the bottom of this infection of yours. But before you do that, I’d like to clean out your wounds, make sure they can start to heal. Alright with that, dear?”

Grunt.

Well, this was one procedure that definitely wasn’t optional, so Aziraphale decided to skip asking for more explicit permission. An old-fashioned first aid kit hat appeared on the bedside table. So old fashioned, in fact, that when Aziraphale pulled out a bottle of alcohol disinfectant, he noticed he’d unconsciously materialised it in a solid glass bottle, the kind used in quaint nostalgic apothecary decorations. Oh well. Alcohol was alcohol, in this case.

He poured a bit of it on a piece of cloth, and firmly grabbed the edge of Crowley’s right wing in one hand.

“This will sting a bit. Please try to hold still.”

He might as well have foregone that warning, because as soon as the cloth touched the edge of the wound, Crowley’s wing jerked so violently it escaped his grasp, and wiped the first aid kit off the table. Aziraphale tutted.

“Really, now. I can’t just leave it like that. Could you please…”

He considered his options for a moment.

“Roll onto your side, will you? No, the right one.”

With the wing flush against the comforter of the bed, Aziraphale managed to put his left forearm right across the largest joint, and press down gently – not enough to hurt, of course, but enough to keep the appendage effectively pinned in place, while his right hand began dabbing at the opening once again. This time, when Crowley’s muscles twitched, he was prepared for it, and managed to hold him in place while cleaning out the various secretions that had accumulated on the burned and torn flesh.

“There. Better.”

Crowley gave off another grunt, which Aziraphale was pretty certain meant _easy for you to say_ but kept his wing obligingly in place while he placed an antiseptic piece of gauze on top of the wound and wrapped it – as best he could – in a bandage. These supplies really had not been intended for demonic anatomy. But they would have to do.

He briefly considered dealing with the possibly broken bones in the other wing but decided against it. That would be easier to deal with once Crowley had drifted off to sleep.

“I think that is it, for now, dear. Get some rest. I will look up some information that I think could be helpful and check on you now and then. If you wake up in the meantime and need me…” He paused, then miracled up a bell to place on the bedside table. It was the kind you might find at the desk of a quaint little bed and breakfast, so if Crowley needed to ring it, he would only have to reach out in the general direction and manage to hit it. No further motor skills required. “There.”

It wasn’t until several hours, a few healing miracles, and a whole lot of research later, that Aziraphale actually heard the insistent _ding ding ding_ of the bell. Glad that his gut feeling had inspired him to prepare some fortifying food already, Aziraphale hurried up the stairs, making a short stop in the kitchen to retrieve the results of his cooking.

He settled himself on the edge of the mattress and placed a hand on Crowley’s forehead. Still hot. Especially for someone with a naturally cold-blooded constitution.

“How do you feel?”

The demon shrugged. He still looked tired, and weak, but some of the bone-deep exhaustion seemed to have left him. “Better. Not great, but better.” And clearly to utter full sentences again, though they weren’t very advanced, yet.

Good. Aziraphale had been mildly worried that Crowley would try to claim to be entirely fine, much too early, and try to run off at the first chance.

“Glad to hear it, dear. Now, you should eat something. But I understand you’ll probably not have much of an appetite, so I made you something you can just drink.”

He held out the mug he’d been carrying, which Crowley eyed suspiciously.

“What is that?”

The murky, pale liquid was steaming a little more vigorously than was probably entirely justified, considering he’d prepared it without knowing exactly when Crowley would wake up. But considering he had otherwise made it from scratch, surely, that barely counted as a miracle.

“It’s caudle,” Aziraphale announced proudly. Certainly, his culinary skills were not very advanced, given that he usually preferred to dine out, but there were some things he had picked up over the years. The many, many years, in this case. Crowley still didn’t look convinced, so he added: “It’s meant to build up your strength. Lots of lovely warming spices and some sugar and protein, you’ll need that. And some ale. I thought the alcohol might help your appetite. A very lovely midwife taught me the recipe back in… oh. A long time ago.”

Crowley sniffed the brew and brought it up to his lips to take a small, still very hesitant sip. His face crumpled in disgust.

“When?” He looked back up at Aziraphale, as though suspicious that there was something the angel wasn’t telling him. “When did you learn this, Angel?”

Aziraphale avoided his reproachful look, and fidgeted with the comforter, tugging and smoothing as though it wouldn’t end up looking just the same, again, in a matter of minutes.

“Oh, I believe it was… in 13…67? Or thereabouts?”

At that, Crowley grimaced again, like his worst fears had been confirmed, and decidedly put the mug down on the bedside table.

“Fucking fourteenth century. You know how I feel about the _fourteenth century_.”

With a hurt expression, Aziraphale picked up the mug and sniffed at its contents. It smelled perfectly alright to him. Tempting, even. Well, if Crowley wasn’t going to drink it, he might as well…

“Honestly, dear. It tastes perfectly lovely. You can’t honestly mean to tell me that you can’t drink this, just because it may or may not have been invented during a time you didn’t particularly enjoy.”

Crowley had closed his eyes again but was giving him a lazy grin all the same.

“I can’t drink thissss, Angel, because it’s warm beer with half-cooked eggs and that’s disgusting, and frankly a waste of good spices. You drink it, if you like it so much. ‘m not hungry anyway.”

Aziraphale sighed but took another sip. No use letting a perfectly good beverage go to waste.

“Glad to see that you’re feeling well enough to complain,” he responded testily. “But you have to eat something, hungry or not. I suppose I’ll have to find you something else, then.”

When he returned, Crowley was properly propped up against the headboard, and studying the empty wall opposite as though measuring it for something.

“You should think about getting a TV in here.”

The mere idea had Aziraphale taking a step backwards, and stare at the demon in horror. He barely liked to watch TV anywhere, but in his bedroom? Granted, it did not get much use for actual sleeping. But it was such a cosy little sanctuary for curling up with a good book. A television would _quite_ spoil that effect.

“I certainly will not.”

He set the tray he’d been carrying down on the bed and shot Crowley a stern look. The demon looked like he’d been about to argue, but upon seeing Aziraphale’s expression, shut his mouth without further comment.

“There you go. Egg drop soup. I trust that won’t be too _medieval_ for your tastes.”

This time, when he drew the tray towards himself, Crowley eyed the food with genuine appetite, a rare enough sight. True, their corporations didn’t strictly require food, but after seven days of exhausting himself with fruitless grooming, on top of dealing with this infection, it could only help to feed his human vessel. Aziraphale watched him cautiously taste the steam that rose from the bowl, and take a first, experimental spoon full. Apparently, this meal passed the test, because Crowley began eating with more gusto, until some of the ingredients caught his eye.

“Fresh herbs, Angel? Didn’t know you kept a kitchen garden.”

He did not, but conjuring up a few plants had been among the lesser problems Aziraphale had dealt with over the past few hours. It would have been preferable of course, for this purpose, to have naturally raised ones. But needs must.

„Ah, well, you see… after you fell asleep, I miracled your broken bones.”

This seemed to stump Crowley, and he put down his spoon, apparently trying to work out how the two topics were connected. “Yes?”

“And your temperature immediately climbed, in a way I cannot imagine would be healthy for this corporation. Now, it is possible of course that this was just a coincidence, and part of the healing process, but. I thought maybe your constitution does not deal well with angelic blessings.”

In fact, he had done some research. And though it was not easy to find publications that dealt with the problem of how to take care of an injured demon – humans were more concerned with how to rid themselves of evil, after all – his sources seemed to support the hypothesis.

“Aziraphale. You’ve miracled things around me before.”

“Yes, but nothing directly to do with your body. And when it was something food related, you’ve been in much better shape, so I imagine minor intrusions into… whatever you have in place of an immune system would not have been noticeable.”

Crowley did not seem entirely convinced, but willing to go along for the sake of the argument.

“I see. So, the herbs are…?”

Without meaning to, Aziraphale sat up a little straighter, beaming with badly-contained pride.

“A pagan healing spell. You see. Since paganism and witchcraft have been widely confused with dark forces for centuries now, I thought they might be easier on your stomach.”

This appeared to both amuse and touch Crowley, though he dropped his gaze quickly, so it was hard to tell.

“Uh-huh. And those?”

The demon lifted a spoon to show off some of the pasta floating in the broth.

“Well, you will need some carbohydrates, you know. For energy.” He knew, of course, that this was not what Crowley had been asking about.

“No, Angel, I mean. Stars?”Aziraphale blushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Quite possibly. Still, it had seemed like a nice touch. He decided not to answer and rose to his feet. “Well, enjoy your meal. And then rest some more. You’ll need it.”

Perhaps there was a little more force in his step than strictly necessary when he marched towards the door. He’d almost managed to pull it closed behind him, when Crowley spoke again.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

~~

In spite of his best efforts, and a truly impressive collection of literature spanning the centuries, Aziraphale did not manage to find much helpful advice in the art of nursing an injured demon. Luckily, his instincts seemed up to the task of improvising.

It helped, of course, that Crowley seemed happy enough to mostly sleep his exhaustion away, and had not voiced any objections to the array of light meals and beverages Aziraphale had placed before him. (That is, unless you counted ‘You do know the concept of delivery, right, Angel?’ as an objection. Aziraphale did, of course, but had concluded that for this purpose, personally hand-made dishes were to be preferred.)

Nevertheless, it did surprise him when, only two days later, he heard the faint thud of footsteps approaching from the hall as he sat in his study (the armchair had been returned to its usual spot and cleaned of feather-related dirt), nursing a glass of wine.

Even more so, when Crowley pushed open the door, looking slightly dishevelled and still very pale, even for his standards, but otherwise very much restored.

“I’m just saying, Angel. TV.” He announced, as though continuing a conversation they had just put on hold. Aziraphale smiled, in spite of himself, and put down his glass.

“Feeling well enough to be bored already?” This was very good news, indeed.

“Excruciatingly so. I like your way of dealing with that, though, don’t mind if I do.”

With that, the demon made his way over to the small cupboard holding, as he knew from previous experience, Aziraphale’s collection of liquor. Aziraphale’s pleased expression faltered.

“Crowley! You can’t possibly think you are well enough to drink already!”

Crowley seemed unperturbed and studied the selection before him with interest.

“’s my body, Angel. And I’m grateful to you for helping me get back into shape, and all, but you can’t really tell me what to do with it.”

“Well.” Aziraphale straightened his back and did his best not to wince at the ways in which his clothing stuck to the armchair. Perhaps the ‘have a bit of a rest and a drink’ portion of the evening had been going on too long. “As the person who, arguably, loves you most in this world, I do have a vested interest in your taking better care of your health, dear.”

Crowley froze, and Aziraphale could swear he could see the demon’s fingers tighten around the cupboard door.

“As the – You _what_?”

His voice was strangled, and Aziraphale’s heart gave a squeeze at the sound. But his brain, pleasantly sluggish from the drink, refused to process the implications. Any hint of _move on, while you still have plausible deniability, come on!_ ended up quickly stuffed into a deep, dark corner, smothered by the much, much bigger part of him that was giddy with the elation of hearing the words out loud. He cleared his throat.

“Love you, Crowley. I do.”

Whatever was left of his ability to think clearly tugged at the back of his mind and whispered that of course, he couldn’t be surprised at that, could he? Angelic duty, and all that. And the reckless, utterly, uncharacteristically brave part of him wanted to clarify, wanted to… explain, somehow, that he was not talking about divine love at all, he was talking about its much, much more human incarnation.

But.

“Forgive me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said. I know you could never… Well. What I mean to say is, I don’t expect you to respond. I do hope you won’t hold it against me, though, and that we can still be friends.”

Crowley turned around and crossed his arms, his face unreadable.

“Friends,” he repeated, voice low and… perhaps just a bit shaky. He ran one hand over his face and Aziraphale could see his posture shift with the effort of drawing breath. “No, Angel, I really don’t think we can.”

_Oh. Well, that’s that, then._ Bravo to him, really, ruining things, barely a week into the new world order. _Couldn’t you just have kept your mouth shut, you big, stupid angel_?

The thought only passed through him for a second, though, before it was crowded out by another instinct, often forgotten among all his soft habits and creature comforts, the one that had taken over at the end, and told him that perhaps, just perhaps, it might be worth sacrificing one eleven-year old boy in exchange for the world.

_You’ve got something worth fighting for. Face the music and do it. _

“Are you sure? Crowley, I wouldn- never want to make your uncomfortable. But I mean. We don’t even have to- to mention it…?“

Crowley’s hand was doing a complicated shushing dance, and his face crumpled into a grimace that could not be described as anything but painful.

“Will you shut up and let me finish, Angel? What I’m _saying_. Is I don’t think we can be just friends, if –“ He cut himself off with another sigh. “Sober up, will you? I need to know you’re actually… fully with me on this.”

Aziraphale attempted to cast him a wounded look but found himself stuck on the two empty bottles sitting next to him. Perhaps a bit much, even with a celestial constitution. Although the prospect of getting through this sober was… well. At any rate, it was a reasonable request. Squeezing his eyes shut, he concentrated on banishing the alcohol from his bloodstream, and looked up to find two refilled bottles and Crowley, perched on the armrest of Aziraphale’s chair now, and looking decidedly unsure about the lack of distance between them.

_Oh, bother._ He really had managed to put his foot in it, now. But before he could wrap his fuzzy tongue around an apology, Crowley’s face softened, and he continued.

“What I was _saying_, Angel, is I don’t think we can ignore what you just said, if you really feel like that, because I am very much, and completely undemonically, in love with you. _How_ are you not aware of this?”

All Aziraphale could do at this moment was gape at him and wonder whether he’d really succeeded in sobering up. His head certainly was swimming enough to explain the disappearance of several bottles of good Scotch.

“But,” he finally managed. Crowley was looking at him patiently, almost as though waiting for Aziraphale to complete an assignment that had been explained to him, repeatedly, and he really should be able to finish in his sleep. “But you’re a demon! You can’t feel love! Not in… this way.”

All right, maybe he had overestimated Crowley’s patience. Instead, the demon was now rubbing his temples with a sigh that could have been either amusement or complete exasperation. At this point, Aziraphale did not feel confident enough to tell the difference.

“Sure. I’ve been nothing but a paragon of demonic virtues. And while we’re on that subject, aren’t you supposed to be able to sense love, _Principality Aziraphale_?”

Aziraphale flinched. He was, wasn’t he? Perhaps there was something about the way a demon would broadcast his emotions that his senses would be unable to pick up on? Or… he hated the thought as soon as it formed, but unfortunately, his mind had become very adept at shutting down every sliver of hope in this direction as soon as it arose.

“I suppose I should. Unless, for some reason, you are telling me about something that isn’t there.”

He’d tried very hard to keep his voice light and casual, but it still came out wounded. The tone was nothing, however, in comparison to the utter _offense_ with which Crowley now stared back at him.

“Tell – I – ngh – _WHAT_?” His eyes narrowed, and the irises, restored to their semi-human state by his earlier nap, pulsed and expanded over his whites. “You really believe I would _lie_ to you? About something like that? What purpose could that possibly serve? Not to mention, I’ve been doing this for far too long, you know I’m not _that_ patient. Especially not for the kind of stupid prank that would be. _Satan_. Angel, I’m a _goddamn imax technicolor surround sound_ of being in love with you, and if I ever managed to tune that down, it’s only because I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I’m _going too fast_.”

Aziraphale had to admit that was a fair point. Although the way Crowley presented it, it sounded terribly accusatory, when up to this point, he had believed all his protests had been nothing but a somewhat cleverly-disguised way of protecting his own heart. And sincere as Crowley seemed, he still found it hard to believe that there was anything else he’d been missing, since –

“But you’ve never changed! I mean, certainly, I’ve always known that you had far too much affection for earth and for the humans and… everything, which, by the way, dear. You should be glad that demons don’t possess the same kind of sensor for love that angels do. I’m quite sure that would not have gone over well with your supervisors.”

Crowley did not answer. He was pinching his nose, eyes squeezed shut, and inhaling in a forcibly-slow fashion that suggested he was trying very hard not to let this become a hiss. It sounded painful, and Aziraphale suddenly remembered that, not three hours ago, the demon had been passed out in his bed, battling a serious infection.

“Are you alright? Do you need to lie down?”

He began pushing out of his armchair, ready to lend a hand in case Crowley was suddenly experiencing a setback, but found himself stopped by a surprisingly firm hand on his chest.

“I’m fine. Just trying to figure out how someone as smart as you can also be the absolute _densest_ person in the _universe_.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, offended but not entirely sure what he was arguing with here, and then closed it again, at a loss for words. Just as well, since Crowley had reached for his hand now, and he was almost positive he could feel his heart stop at the sensation of fingers intertwining with his own. Some part of his brain registered that Crowley’s fever seemed to have passed, his skin back to its normal, slightly-less-than-human temperature, but his pulse was still racing.

“Mind if I try something, Angel?”

He didn’t really know how to respond, and his tongue seemed fused to the roof of his mouth, anyway, so Aziraphale simply nodded. With something entirely too gentle to be called hurry, and entirely too desperate to be called careful, Crowley was in his lap, bony knees pressing into Aziraphale’s sides, both hands on his face, and pressing a feather-light kiss against the skin just above the angel’s right ear.

“I need you” – left ear – “to understand” – left cheek, just above his jaw – “that I” – right jaw now, and soft as his lips were, Aziraphale could swear he could feel teeth through them, and shivered – “have been in love with you, since the very beginning, and whatever little story you’ve constructed in your head” – Crowley’s hand was combing through Aziraphale’s hair, and tracing down his neck, and a gasp escaped him. Crowley ran his fingers along his jaw, and tilted his head back ever so slightly, so they could look each other in the eyes. “Whatever you _needed_ to tell yourself, Angel, all of this is, and always has been, for you.”

With that, he pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s, which were still slightly parted, and for the fraction of a second, the angel felt almost disappointed that Crowley made no move to open up towards him and deepen the kiss. Then, just as he began to lean forward, he could sense a – not an opening, exactly, a crack, the entirely non-physical sensation of a dam breaking, a floodgate being thrown open, and a powerful wave of emotion washing over him. It felt like electricity. Like a gust of searing hot air escaping from the crumbling entry of a burning building. Like the first sunlight breaking through a year’s worth of thunderclouds. Holding someone you never thought you’d be able to touch again. Time skidding to a halt. Like every ounce of love he had ever felt radiating off of Crowley.

_Oh, fuck. _

With a sudden surge of need and embarrassment, Aziraphale noticed that his Effort had manifested itself, and was straining against the weight of Crowley’s body on his. He gasped, trying to retreat back into an armchair that, naturally, would not allow him to do so, and instead, pushed Crowley away from him, so the demon came to sit back on his knees. Dazed as he looked, the disappointment was evident on the Crowley’s face, as he asked: “Too fast?”

_Yes, _Aziraphale thought, _but this time, it’s my fault. _

“Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling his face heat up uncomfortably, and attempting to avoid Crowley’s gaze. Unfortunately, close as they were, the gesture looked as though he was glancing down into his own lap, now, and _damn it_, he’d been trying to _avoid_ drawing attention to that. “I didn’t mean to – meant to –“ Aziraphale forced himself to draw an unsteady breath. “I wouldn’t want to presume.”

Crowley seemed confused for a moment, then followed Aziraphale’s eyes to the undeniable bulge between his thighs, and gave a strange, breathless laugh, before launching himself forward again, and very intentionally rubbing up against the _corpus delicti_.

“Presume what, Angel?” His breath felt hot against Aziraphale’s skin, and somewhere on the edge of his mind, the angel was aware that they both hadn’t brushed their teeth in a while, and there probably was something to he human idea of morning breath, but to his surprise he found that he didn’t mind. It felt strangely intimate. “That the literal demon straddling your lap and confessing his undying love to you would like to see you get all hot and bothered about it?”

If the prickling of his skin was any indication, Aziraphale’s face must be giving a very good impression of this description right about now.

“Well… yes. After all, love does not necessarily translate to…” Oh, _dear Lord_, Crowley was using his hands, now, running them slowly up Aziraphale’s torso and _Heaven help_. As soon as he thought that, he had to make a mental note that perhaps, there was something to be said for the fact that Upstairs had never, even at the best of times, responded to such requests. “… sexual attraction,” he forced himself to finish.

At this, Crowley pulled back slightly, and regarded him with an expression that was somewhere between fondness and hunger.

“I know, Angel. And I love that you are the type to ask, but trust me, it does for me. And for you, too, yes? I mean. Judging by this.”

Aziraphale had to bite his lip to keep from gasping again, when Crowley accompanied his last words by running his fingertips over his clothed erection. The mere ghost of a touch. He squeezed his eyes shut as he gave an urgent nod. Drawing Crowley into another kiss, he wound his arms around the demon’s body, and pulled him closer.

As good as this felt, though, he could not quite let go of his nervousness. The next time they came up for (strictly unnecessary) air, he asked: “Are you sure? You seem, well.” His own hands were on Crowley’s hips now, and his thumbs brushing up against a crotch that definitely displayed the same anatomy as Aziraphale’s, except without the tell-tale signs of arousal. “I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated, I’m quite happy to-“

The rest of his protest was cut off by a pair of hungry lips, pressing him back into the headrest, and by Crowley’s fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Aziraphale, I’m sure,” he growled into the kiss, and the vibrations did some unspeakably thrilling things to the angel’s insides. “I’m also pretty sure I was remarkably close to dying there, for a minute, so cut me some slack, okay?”

His chest was rising and falling with the increasing effort of bringing air into his lungs, and Aziraphale felt quite sure that his body was rapidly forgetting it did not need to breathe. Still. “Shouldn’t… shouldn’t we wait, then?” Crowley had been kissing down his neck, and working on undoing his tie, but paused obligingly. “I mean. So that we can both enjoy it?” The chuckle against his artery felt like the echo of another heartbeat, knocking against his own and sending vibrations all the way to his chest.

“Oh, I’m enjoying myself.” The teeth Aziraphale had felt in his earlier kiss were now actually against his skin, gently nibbling at the line where his neck met his collar. “And Angel, if you stop this for any reason except because you don’t want it, I swear I’ll discorporate right now. Good luck getting me back then, after the stunt we both pulled.” Crowley paused, and pulled back slightly. “_Do_ you want this?”

What a question.

“_Fuck_, yes,” Aziraphale groaned before he could stop himself, and the absolutely wicked glint in Crowley’s eyes as he heard the profanity made him very, very glad that he hadn’t. In fact, it made him want to see what would happen if he kept going. “I’ve wanted this for such a _fucking_ long time.”

Crowley’s eyes seemed to swim slightly out of focus, at that, and he gave a small, choked off whimper before diving back in to unbutton first Aziraphale’s shirt, and then practically _clawing_ at the waist of his trousers. “Tell me, Angel. Please,” he beseeched between two sloppy, ravenous kisses to Aziraphale’s chest. “Tell me how long you’ve wanted it.”

His hands were on Aziraphale’s fly now, and the angel arched up into the touch, torn between the desire to let Crowley make short work of his remaining clothes, and wanting to get as much friction on his erection as he could, right now.

“Since…” He paused, trying to remember what would be the most honest answer. “Since the flood. A-after, the flood, I think.” Clearly, Crowley had not been expecting that. He paused, looking up at Aziraphale with such wonder and – fuck – _gratitude_, he had to throw back his head and close his eyes just to avoid seeing that. That completely unnecessary, unbelievable expression. He kept talking, just to distract himself. “When you found me, that day on the beach. And I learned that you’d rescued all those children.”

“And to think that was one of the few things I _didn’t_ do to catch your attention.”

By now, he’d pushed down Aziraphale’s trousers and pants as far as they would go without either of them getting up, and it took a considerable – and not particularly graceful – amount of wiggling to get them down to Aziraphale’s knees. Finally, with unrestricted access to the angel’s cock, Crowley once again devoted his attentions to thoroughly kissing and sucking his neck, while inching his fingers slowly up one soft, flushed thigh.

“I don’t think you had to, even then…” Aziraphale lifted one hand and ran it experimentally through the demon’s hair, delighted at the shiver this relatively chaste touch immediately caused. “I had so many theories, you know.” Crowley’s fingers were on his balls now, so good and yet so torturously not where he needed them, he had half a mind to scream at him and demand he just _get on with it, touch me already, let me fuck you, at least like this_. Instead, he forced himself to continue. “I thought perhaps the Almighty was testing me. To see if I’d risk Falling to be with a demon, or, by making me want that… that man-shaped body of yours, when humans weren’t supposed to love like that.” Of course, he’d already had his suspicions that humans had gotten that particular set of instructions quite wrong. It had always seemed odd to Aziraphale, penalising love was quite far from what little they had been told about the _ineffable plan_.

“But then… I saw you in your other – configurations.” And what a revelation that had been. Every bit as good, in its own way, as Crowley’s fingers now finally, finally, closing around his length and beginning to stroke him in a steady pattern. “So that couldn’t be it. I thought maybe this was just a way of making me – hah!” Crowley had bent down to his chest, again, and was now nibbling on one of Aziraphale’s nipples. “Making me understand the humans a bit better, so I waited for it to pass. Only it didn’t.”

The friction of Crowley’s hand on his cock was so distractingly good, so perfect and not _enough_, Aziraphale began rocking his hips slightly, trying to find more purchase. “It didn’t, I don’t think it could have, because you’re not human, darling, are you?” Crowley’s free hand had been placed on the slight swell of Aziraphale’s gut, and at these words, it tensed, short nails biting into his skin. “You’re not, you are so much more, you’re perfect, just perfect, and now you’re-“ He paused, slumping back into his chair and wondering, momentarily, if he’d gone too far. Let himself get too carried away.

Crowley, likewise, had stopped in his tracks, hand still around Aziraphale’s erection, but no longer moving a muscle. The angel drew in a sharp breath, wondering how to best phrase an apology that wouldn’t completely ruin the mood, and yet acknowledge the line that might have been crossed. Before he could find the words, though, Crowley raised his face to look at him with an expression of complete _bliss_, desire burning in his eyes.

“Sssay it. Please.”

Aziraphale smiled and bent down to lean his forehead against the demon’s.

“You’re mine.”

The sigh was what did it, in the end: shuddering breath escaping from Crowley’s lips, and Aziraphale felt himself come. He slumped back into the chair and pulled Crowley with him, uncaring, for now, about the mess this made of both of their remaining clothes. Crowley wiped his hand on his pyjama, half-heartedly, and nuzzled up to Aziraphale’s neck.

“How about we give that bathtub of yours another try, Angel? Looked big enough for both of us, from where I was sitting…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should not have to say this (and probably don’t, but just in case: do not take wound care advice from a fanfic written in a late-night keyboard-hackathon by a person with a social sciences degree. End of psa.)

**Author's Note:**

> Want to comment, but not sure what to say?   
I welcome any kind of comment – short sentences or emojis as much as long lists of copied sentences you liked with or without your reaction, and of COURSE long rants or analyses on what you liked. Constructive criticism is also always appreciated!  
If you’re stuck on what to say, the Long Live Feedback comment builder is a neat tool. It exists as either a [Google sheet](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1lOqWGDNquHxr23l84ASKn-vdSLFrHop4giVOYDkKnWI/edit#gid=547831518) or an [excel sheet](https://onedrive.live.com/view.aspx?resid=5483CD320B0B1070!128&ithint=file%2cxlsx&authkey=!AH0iTc9X_UtUzCE), both of which help you generate comments that express what you liked about a story without you having to find or type the words. Comments can be customised or fully generated by the tool, and I promise, as your author, I will love you for commenting more frequently!


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